SPN-fanfiction - The trouble with boredom
by spnfanfromeurope
Summary: What happened when Dad was busy wrapping up the loose ends after a hunt, and the boys got bored? Preseries. No spoilers. No smut. No ships. Not in my abusive-John verse, and it doesn't get too dark. Warnings: a few four letter words are being used and there's a pretty severe belt spanking of a teen and a preteen. I own nothing. I just play in the sandbox.


Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair.  
Damn way to spend a hot Texas summer Saturday afternoon.

Dad had left late last night to wrap up a few things after a successful hunt.  
He'd seemed quite tired but satisfied, having managed to dispatch a particularly nasty poltergeist at the local school.  
He'd said, he'd be back early.  
He hadn't been, but Dean was kind of used to that.

The problem was, Dad hadn't left him with any money, and they were out of food by now.  
Dean had gone through every bag and pocket and all he'd scraped together was a handful of change - it amounted to about a dollar's worth.  
Yesterday evening they'd demolished the last of the SpaghettiOs's, and this morning, Sam had had the last of the Lucky Charms.  
Dean was hungry and bored.  
Sam was hungry, bored and getting downright whiny with it: there was no library in town, he'd read all his books already, there was nothing on tv, he was sick of this motel, he…

Dean decided, he had to do something, before he had to strangle his little brother just to get him to shut up.  
Dad might or might not be back later today. And he hadn't told them to stay in the motel, just told Dean to not let Sam out of his sight. They were in a small town, not much to do, but anything was better than nothing. Right?

"Deeeeaaaannnn…"

"Ok, Sammy, let's go out."  
"Whyyyy?"  
"Just come on!"

* * *

They walked towards the town-center, taking a shortcut through a residential area. The sun was beating the pavement like hammer. The sky was almost white with heat and in the distance, they could see the mirage of water over the road.

Sam was still sulking, now about being hot, and hungry, and bored, when Dean suddenly saw something that gave him an idea. This would both shut Sam up, take their minds of the rumblings of empty stomachs and teach Sam a valuable skill. A skill, Dad had recently taught Dean himself.

* * *

Police officer Alice Brampton stuck her head into the chief's office.  
He was in his chair behind his desk, a stack of files on the table – which was surprising, given his usual dislike of paperwork.

"Hey? Is your wife feeling better? Weren't you gonna stay home for a few days?"  
"I was."  
The usually easygoing chief sounded uncharacteristically sullen.

"Anything wrong?"  
"She threw me out. Said I was fussing. Told me to go be useful."

Brampton laughed.  
The chief huffed at that:  
"Did you just come in here to laugh at me, or…?"

Brampton walked all the way into the office.  
"Well, actually… I think, I saw her car down at the school…"  
"What? Megan has a broken ankle, she ain't gonna be driving anywhere for a while," Chief Tom Langston frowned, "are you sure it was our car?"  
"Unless you've had those dents and stuff fixed?"  
"Not yet."  
"Well, then… not many other powder-blue station wagons driving around town with a dented fender and the hell scratched out of the left side… I hope, I didn't overstep or anything, but it was a little weird. It was just driving in circles in the school parking lot, and a bit later, I saw it heading into town, so I kinda followed it… it pulled in at the convenience down the road… I think the passenger, at least, was a kid…"

Langston stood up from his desk, at once annoyed and pleased.

Annoyed at the thought that his 16 year old son might have broken his grounding and taken the car after that incident with the fence only a few days ago, which was how the car had ended up needing repairs and the boy had ended up grounded after a brief but intense conversation in which Langston had done most of the talking while his son had mostly yelped and promised to be more careful in the future.

Had the stubborn boy really walked out while not only grounded but after promising to be there to help his mom, while she was laid up with that fracture? And had he even taken some other kid along on the ride?

When Langston felt a bit pleased at the same time it was simply because…well, any excuse to get out and about instead of being stuck here behind the desk.

He'd been eager and proud when he was offered the job as chief.  
He liked the job. He liked being the leader of the small-town police force. Liked the usually peaceful atmosphere and the not too serious cases, and he liked the challenge of being a leader instead of the one who took orders.  
What he didn't like was the extra amounts of paperwork that came with the position. He'd never enjoyed paperwork, geezz, which police officer did? But as a chief… it was really ridiculous the amounts of paperwork ended up on his desk.

Not to mention, that this last month or so had been really …well, weird. Any number of unexplained accidents had been happening down at the school. Injuries, vandalism, even a so far unexplained explosion.  
It had been bad, and then his wife fell down the main stairs. Thank God she only broke an ankle doing that stunt, but she swore high and low that she was pushed. Only problem was, she'd been all alone on the stairs at the time. Plenty of students had been there to witness the incident.  
Normally a strong, levelheaded woman, teaching maths and science to a medley of small town and farm kids, she wasn't prone to that kind of hysterics.  
It had rattled Langston enough, that he'd ended up calling his dad up Elgin, near Austin, to unload. The man had been on the force most of his life and had seen it all. It was always nice to get the old man's take on stuff.  
His dad had gone very quiet.  
He'd refused to offer an opinion, but had instead given Langston a phone number, and said: "Call that number and tell him exactly what you told me. He can help."

It had taken Langston a day or two, but old habits die hard and eventually, he'd done as the old man said and had called. And help had been given – in the form of yet another phone number along with the instructions to tell the story and to mention who'd given him the number.

It had all made him feel like he was in some sort of second-rate spy novel or something. But two days after that final phone-call a black car had rolled into town, and yes, help had come.

Langston wouldn't claim to understand everything that had been happening, and he was very sure that he didn't want to know. But the problem seemed to have been solved.  
And now – there was paperwork…

As he was musing along these lines he waved at Brampton.  
"Come on, let's go check it out."

* * *

Dean had dug a handful of change from his pocket and told Sam to go buy a candy bar or something at the register, while Dean himself had wandered off to the back of the store.

Sam was still almost dizzy with excitement. It had been a fun afternoon.  
Dean had taken a car from a driveway!  
He'd even shown Sam how to start it without a key or anything.  
Sam knew, he should have objected to that, but Dean had said it was ok, since they were going to put it back, and besides, it was so dinged and scraped up, the owner was obviously not too fond of it, and wouldn't mind them borrowing it for a bit…

Anyway, Dean had driven them to the empty school parking yard, and had taught Sam how to drive!  
It had been exhilarating. Feeling the big machine follow his directions, even though Dean had insisted that they should only drive in slow circles around and around.

When that got boring, Dean had taken over the wheel and driven them here for some shopping.

Which was nice, since Sam was getting really seriously hungry by now.  
He'd just paid his chocolate bar and had it safely in his pocket, when a ruckus started up in the back of the store.  
A male voice was shouting something about a thief.  
Sam turned to see what was going on as the man yelled:  
"Grab that one, they were together" and the woman, who'd been behind the register suddenly reached over the desk to grab him by the shirt and arm. Sam started to spin and struggle, more out of surprise, than anything else. 

* * *

Chief Langston walked through the convenience store door and straight into chaos.

Mrs. Jackson was halfway across the desk, holding onto a boy at around ten or eleven, who was kicking and spinning like a dervish.  
Coming towards them was an older boy, fourteen or fifteen, who was struggling step by step to reach the younger boy, while at the same time more or less dragging Mr. Jackson through the store. Jackson wasn't a big man, and he wasn't as young as he'd been, but he was as stubborn as a mule and was certainly making the kid work for every step.

The boy stopped pulling forward, turned, and moved towards Jackson so fast, the older man lost his balance and nearly fell.  
This made him let go of the teen, and at that point Langston sprang into action.  
He grabbed the kid by the shoulder, intending to haul him around.  
The kid moved effortlessly with the pull, spinning around, leading with a fist and punched Langston straight in the eye.  
Cursing soundly Langston did his best to get a decent hold on the kid, while staying away from the fists.  
The boy damn well knew how to use his fists, that was for sure.  
He'd had some sort of training, and it hadn't just involved learning to punch. He was fighting as dirty as anyone Langston had ever been up against. Trying to keep a hold on the boy was like trying to hold onto an eel, all wiry twists and turns. An eel that could both punch and kick too.

Brampton joined the fray, throwing herself at the kids back. In the end, they managed to wrestle the boy to the ground and get a pair of cuffs on him.  
Brampton put a knee in the boy's back and straightened up, wiping her face.  
Langston stood up, tenderly poking a finger at the edges of his puffy eye.  
Damn kid.  
Hm… he looked vaguely familiar. Not one of their usual local delinquents. Maybe he knew the kid's parents?

Up at the register, Mr. Jackson had taken over from his wife and was holding the younger boy. The kid had stopped struggling when his brother went down and just stood there. It was all rather eerie, neither of the boys had made much noise during the tumult. They had just fought in intense silence.

The silence continued while the two officers hauled the kids out the door and stuffed them into Megan Langston's car, which they might as well bring back down the street to the station since they were going that way anyway.  
Langston grumbled to himself when he saw that the car been hot-wired, but at least the kid had been fairly neat about it. It would be an easy repair.  
As they took the boys from the car into the station there was a few attempts to break free, but not any real problematic fighting, not with the older, more serious, combatant having his hands cuffed behind his back. There was still not a word from either of them, until they reached the station.

As Langston hauled the older kid into an interrogation room, and Brampton took the younger into the break-room, the realization of the separation set the older kid off, twisting and yelling:  
"Sammy! No. Sam! Sam!  
The younger shouted back: "Dean. Dean!" as the door slammed between them.

Langston shook the struggling kid by the shoulder.  
"Stop it. Stop. He'll be fine. I promise."

The boy wasn't listening. Instead of calming down, he tried to kick Langston in the groin.

Annoyed, the chief swung him around, slammed him onto the interrogation room table, and held the boy down with his body-weight while he released his hands from behind his back and instead tethered them to the metal bar imbedded in the middle of the table by pulling one cuff under the bar and locking it back around the kid's wrist. That way the chain between the two cuffs was under the bar, thus trapping both hands near the middle of the table. That should do it. Kid wasn't going anywhere now.

Langston straightened up, grabbed the boy by the upper arm and pulled him around the table, shoving him onto the chair.  
As the kid landed with a thump, realization finally flashed through Langston's mind.  
"Wait a second. Sam? Dean? You John Winchester's boys?"  
The teen froze under Langston's hand.  
After a long pause the boy sighed and nodded, shoulders slumping as the last bits of fight drained out of him.

Langston sat down on the other side of the table.  
"You must be Dean? John told me about you and Sam."  
Langston waited for a moment, but the boy never lifted his head.  
"John is in town because Bobby Singer up in South Dakota said he'd be able to help us with a situation. And he did."

Still no response.  
Langston shrugged.  
"Ok, then. I'll go give him a call. "  
The teen's head shot up at this, but he still didn't say anything.

As Langston opened the door, he heard the first full sentence out of the boy:  
"Sam's hungry. Dad might take a while to get here."

Langston nodded, even though the kid wouldn't see, as he was not looking at anything but the table.  
"I'll make sure he gets something."

* * *

Dean was slumped over, resting his head on his arms when his dad burst through the door to the interrogation room growling: "Talk! Now!"

Dean jerked upright and reflexively tried to get to his feet, before the pull of the metal around his wrists reminded him to stay seated. John leaned across the table, getting into Dean's space.

Dean leaned back as far as he could go, took a deep breath and in the short precise way of a soldier giving a report to a superior officer retold the events of the afternoon.

Langston, leaning against the wall next to the door, raised his eyebrows. Well, he'd be damned. There were none of the excuses or explanations his own son had given for the banged-up car, just this concise recounting of events.  
He could see John's muscles tense up more and more as the report drew to a close.

When Dean closed his mouth after a final "sir," John reached out and almost casually gave the boy a fairly light smack in the back of the head. The kid didn't protest, he just bent his head.

Langston decided, he had better step in with a few extra details to the story.

"John," he said, "I've been back to the store while we waited for you to get here. The Jacksons admitted that the kids didn't actually steal anything. Mr. Jackson saw Dean putting a small jar of peanut butter in his pocket and grabbed him before he'd gotten up to the register. Since nothing was stolen, and Mr. Jackson agreed, that he should have let the kid have the benefit of the doubt until he'd actually passed by the register and since no one got hurt, they agreed not to press charges."  
And that equaled no paperwork, he added silently to himself.

John straightened up and turned so fast, Langston would have taken a step backwards, if he'd had room. Luckily the wall saved him that embarrassment.  
Dang it, John Winchester was one intimidating dude.

"You telling me, you gave yourself that shiner? And your car, I saw it, it's all banged up!"  
Langston laughed.  
"The car is curtesy of my own son, yours didn't add a single scratch to it. And if Dean managed to give me a shiner, I'll bet he could have laid out old Mr. Jackson, but he didn't. In light of the circumstances, I'll forgive the "borrowing" of my car and the shiner. Anyway, it's a pretty good reminder of not wading into a fight without having my wits properly about me."

Behind John's shoulder he saw a flash of a grin from the kid, quickly hidden.

John nodded briskly. "Well, then. Thank you for that. And don't worry, I'll make damn sure my boys learn their lessons from this."

This time Langston saw Dean wince, and it was his turn to flash a quick grin.  
Yep, he'd thought that would be the outcome.  
And still no extra paperwork would be generated. As far as he was concerned that was the best possible result of this whole situation.

"Don't be too hard on the kids. Boys will be boys, you know."  
John grunted.  
"Won't kill them to eat standing up tonight. Boys have brains too. They just sometimes need a little help remembering that," he replied as he walked towards the door.

* * *

The drive back to the motel had been long. Dad's hands had been white knuckled on the wheel, silence hanging in the air, potent like a gathering thunderstorm.

Dad had walked them all the way into the motel room and had said the first words directly to any of his sons since the order to talk he'd given Dean at the station. This time he'd been a little more eloquent, but the message had still been pretty short:  
"I need to get the rest of the mess cleaned up properly. You just wait 'till I get back."  
He'd touched his belt buckle at the last words making Dean's stomach drop like a stone, and Sam step closer to his brother's side, seeking elusive shelter.

* * *

Sam had been pacing around the room for a while.

Dean was sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall. He'd drawn his knees up to his chest and was resting his forearms on them while his eyes were followings his brother's restless movements. Finally, Sam crawled onto the bed and sat down next to his brother.  
After a few moments, he said quietly.  
"Dean. I'm scared."  
"I know."  
"You think Dad's really gonna… gonna… use his belt?"  
"Yeah, on me, definitely. You? Maybe. He was pretty pissed. I'll try to talk him out of it, ok, Sammy?"

Sam felt his stomach do a little flip-flop, Deans voice was level, almost emotionless, a sure sign that he was about as freaked out as Sam felt, even if he was able to hide it better.

Sam felt awful. He moved a little closer to his big brother, just enough that their shoulders touched.  
Thinking back to the beginning of the day, he'd suddenly realized, that if he hadn't kept bugging Dean about being bored and hungry, none of the rest would have happened. And now Dean was going to take the brunt of Dad's anger for the whole thing….  
It felt like his stomach was full of snakes. Guilt snakes. Those are the worst sort of snakes.

Sam dug into his pocket and brought out the slightly squashed chocolate bar. He brushed off some of the pocket lint and held it out to Dean.  
"I've still got this?" He said, tentatively.

Dean stared incredulous at Sam for a moment then he lowered his head, hiding his face in his arms. His shoulders started to shake, and Sam looked on in horror. Was his big brother crying? Then Dean lifted his head and Sam saw that he was laughing.  
Dean laughed until he was out of breath, but finally, he managed to choke out the words:  
"It damn well better be the best candy bar in the whole frigging world, bitch."

Sam grinned as he peeled the wrapper off and broke the bar in half.  
"Jerk," he said, handing one half to his brother.  
It was good. Might not be the best in the world, but Dean's empty stomach definitely approved.

Sam rolled onto his back, putting his feet up on the wall next to Dean's shoulder as he ate his half.  
"That woman cop was pretty nice. And the chief too. He gave me a donut."  
Dean nodded. Yeah, for cops those two had been a pair of fairly decent fellows. The way that chief had tried to talk Dad down and everything.

After that, they just waited in companionable silence for the inevitable.

* * *

When John finally walked into the room, Sam shifted to a sitting position, pressing tightly against his brother. Dean blinked once, the pit in his stomach tightening another notch. Dad was already taking his belt off as he walked towards the bed. That definitely didn't bode well for any chance of fast-talking him into leaving Sam out of it.

"So, Dean," John said, "anything to add to what you told me at the police station?"  
"It wasn't Sam's fault, Dad. It was all my idea."

"That's as it may be, but Sam knew damn well that you were on thin ice. You both know better than to draw this kind of attention to our family! Stealing the chief of police's car? Shoplifting? Getting caught doing it? And if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: if you get picked up by cops, you follow along quietly, keep your mouths shut and call me, or Bobby, or Pastor Jim. But there I find Sam, chatting happily with that woman cop. And Dean, punching a police-chief? You know that could have put you right into juvie, you moron. You know better. I know you do. And you both need to use your brains when I'm not around to do it for you. So: Who's going to go first?"

"I will, sir. Sorry, sir"  
Dean immediately spun around and stretched out on the bed, head towards the foot-end.

"Ok," John said, "Sam, go wait in the bathroom."

Sam shook his head and deliberately, slowly, moved to stretch out next to Dean. He twisted his neck to look up at his dad.  
"No, sir. I'm not going anywhere. I was so bored, Dean only did it because of me. And I didn't try to stop him. It's my fault. If you are gonna belt Dean, I should be belted too."

His voice shook, and he felt his eyes fill with tears at the mere thought. Dad had never used his belt on him before, but he knew, he was volunteering for something bad, he'd seen how Dean looked after a whipping.

Dean's head jerked up, his face softening in surprise. But before he had a chance to protest, John, knowing his sons, stopped him with a stern:  
"Keep your trap shut, Dean, don't dig yourself any deeper."

John moved around the bed and added:  
"Sam, this was a big deal. It was incredibly irresponsible of both of you, and you were already going to get a taste of the belt too. I just wanted to give each of you a little privacy, but if you wanna do this together…."

He shrugged and swung the doubled-up leather belt, landing it precisely across Sam's back-side.  
Sam gave a startled howl of pain and nearly launched himself off the bed but was stopped when Dean's hand shot out to grab his shoulder, holding him back.  
"Grab the blanket, Sammy," Dean said, "and hold on tiiiiaaaagh."

John had put one knee onto the bed next to Sam so he could reach both boys, as they lay there, side by side, shifting between them for each lash.

He had only shifted back and forth a handful of times before he stopped and said:  
"Get them down."  
There were no protests, only quick obedience from both sons.

With their pants around their knees, there was less kicking.  
Dean lay tense, shoulders bunched up, as he held onto the blankets for dear life.  
He couldn't keep entirely quiet, but he was obviously trying hard to keep the yelps to a minimum.

Sam had crawled forward enough that his head and shoulders were off the bed.  
After a few smacks of leather on bare skin, he stopped yelling and started to sob.

John had just given Dean another smack and moved back to Sam, intending to give his youngest a final hard one to bring the lesson home.

Of course, as the oldest, and the one he trusted to be responsible, Dean wasn't getting off that lightly, but… distracted a little by that thought, as he sent the belt towards Sam's rear end for that final whammer, John didn't manage to pull back in time when Dean exploded into the air and threw himself on top of his brother.

The belt landed across Dean's shoulder-blades with lung-emptying force.  
Dean didn't cry out. He had no air for that.  
The world jumped sideways, and dots of agony danced in front of his eyes.

He heard his father cursing, then a hand lifted his head, gently.  
"Dammit Dean. What do you think you are doing? Are you ok?"

It took several seconds before Dean found his voice.  
"Please stop Dad, Sam's had enough."  
"That's for me to decide. Now move."  
Dean just shook his head and pressed closer down.  
John slammed the belt across his ass.  
"Move!"  
No response.  
Slam.  
"Move!"

Sam felt his brother flinching on top of him and after three times, he couldn't stand it anymore.  
"Dean. Dean. Please do as he says. Dean, get off, please," he whispered, "Dean, please, I'm fine, get off, I'm fine. I'm fine."

The words "I'm fine" seemed to be what finally got through to his brother. Sam felt the weight leave his back.

He gritted his teeth and burrowed his head in his arms.  
The belt landed where Sam's thighs became his ass. He gasped in wordless agony as the echoes rolled through his body. He felt a welt slowly rise, thrumming like a live wire.

Far off - and still right next to him – he heard his brother start to sob.  
He heard his dad move around the bed.  
Heard the belt thud into his brother again, and again.  
Dean was shaking next to him, still sobbing, making an ugly grunting sound with each loud slap.

Sam rolled carefully onto his side, casting a furtive glance up at his dad, but Dad seemed intent on the target in front of him.  
Sam reached out slowly, and put his hand on Dean's shoulder, like Dean had done in the beginning of the ordeal, before the order to pull their pants down had made him move it from Sam's shoulder.  
Dean seemed to lean into his hand, so he left it there, not knowing what else to do.

He wished, he had Dean's courage and could throw himself over him, like Dean'd just done, but seeing how much worse it had made everything made him want to puke, and he didn't dare.  
He was crying silently while his brother was being whipped. This was all his fault, in every way. Would he ever stop letting his brother down? Why did they have to live like this? Why couldn't they just live like normal people?

Finally an eternity later, it seemed, John stepped back from the bed and turned away.  
He stomped out the door, while he slid his belt back on.

John took his time getting the bag of cheeseburgers and fries from the car.  
He put the bag on the table and turned right back around.  
After he came back the second time, carrying a six pack of beer in one hand, a soda under his arm and a box with a cheap apple pie, still defrosting, in his other hand, and set those on the table, he finally approached the bed, making his sons scramble to get off it.

He gave his youngest a hug, ignoring the angry glare the kid gave him, and reached out to grab the shoulder of the oldest, pulling him into the hug too.  
Dean just leaned into his dad's embrace, while Sam soon wriggled free and started setting the food out on the table.

John held his oldest out at arm's length.  
"How's your back? You ok?"  
Dean rolled his shoulders and winced a little.  
"I'll do. Ass's worse."

John shook his head and turned away as he said:  
"Don't do something that damn stupid again, ok?"

When Dean didn't reply, John turned back around, lifting an eyebrow questioningly.

Dean shrugged, and grimaced as the movement pulled at his sore back.  
"Can't make any promises," Dean lowered his voice, so only John would hear the next part, "not when Sam's involved…" then he added as an obvious afterthought, "uhm... Sorry, sir."  
John just shook his head, rolled his eyes and walked over to the table.

He grabbed two beers, twisted the caps off and handed one to his eldest son.  
There was the usual quick stab of guilt – what would his Mary say, if she knew he let the boy drink at 15? But he shrugged it off, knowing damn well that Fred Jones, that old bastard, had given both boys their first beers before they even reached double digits. And as long as it was only occasionally, it was fine. Right? Right?

They ate in a silence that was comfortable rather than angry, even if two out of three were standing up for the meal.  
When the food wrappers were empty, John turned the tv on, found an old western starring Ronald Reagan and settled into the armchair while his boys stretched out on their beds. On their stomachs. Both kids were asleep before the movie ended, but that was ok, because so was John.


End file.
